The Seamstress
by Lorien Urbani
Summary: After escaping from Arkham, the Joker is left without his suit. He crashes into a seamstress's store and demands that an exact replica of his suit be made. No romance. ON TEMPORARY HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1

I am a seamstress.

I've been sewing for so long that I can't remember a time when I wasn't holding a needle in one hand, a piece of fabric in the other, threading through it deftly and creating something new, be it a table cloth, a handkerchief or a skirt. A needle, or a sewing machine, feels like an extension of my fingers. Sewing is a very handy talent, too. I almost never have to buy clothes, but make them myself instead, exactly as I want them.

After graduating from Gotham's College of Art and Design, becoming a designer, my dream came true: I opened my own store. I sell made-to-measure and off-the-rack clothing items, and although some time had to pass before people began to notice my store located on the brink of the upper-middle-class paradise that is East Gotham Village, I have many loyal customers now and I have made my name. I earn more than enough and I live well. I even have seven employers: five wonderful seamstresses, an accountant and a salesgirl. Gotham's socialites come to my store, ordering tailor-made clothes from expensive fabrics, and sometimes – much to my secret dismay – a member of the mob will be my customer. But I don't ask questions; I am silent, I sew and I sell. Occasionally, sewing suits for a mobster overwhelms me with discomfort and guilt, but then I remember that I am living my dream and the feelings ebb away. After all, I have many respectable regular clients. And, I may be a rabbit-hearted girl, but my survival instinct always instructs me to conform to certain situations.

Since the opening of my store five years ago, I haven't had a proper vacation, if I exclude the forced "vacation" four months ago when I had my appendix removed (and even then, the timing couldn't have been worse), so for the first time in five years, I am going to close the store for a whole week. I and my employees deserve to recharge our working batteries and relax our fingers. Still, I have to go to my store before I leave Gotham to visit my sister, who married two years ago, moved to Metropolis and is expecting her first baby. I want to organise my latest sketches, scan them (because I always fear that papers might get lost) and put the folder into the safe. I don't keep a safe in my store for money; I keep it for my sketches. I still have enough time because it is almost five in the afternoon and I am expected for dinner at my sister's at 8:30. It only takes an hour and a half to get to Metropolis by car.

I enter the store through the back entrance, lock it behind me and walk through the dark to my office. Once I'm in the office, I turn on the light and then my computer, shrugging out of my winter coat. I look through the small window overlooking the narrow back street, noticing tiny cotton fluffs swirling through the dark air and landing on the concrete, melting. They're not strong enough to last longer yet, but I am hopeful that we will have a snowy Thanksgiving. Although I love snow and I like to observe its progress, I pull together the heavy blue curtains. The idea that there is a chance someone might see into my illuminated office and watch me from the winter darkness is always unnerving.

I turn on the small TV in my office to watch the 5 o'clock news as I go through my sketches and begin to scan them. I hear that the notorious criminal known as the Joker escaped the Arkham Asylum in the early hours of the day and I look up in surprise, a chill settling at the pit of my stomach. I remember the chaos that this man – if one can call _him_ a man – was wreaking four months ago, destroying our city, playing with its citizens and killing them. We were all very frightened then; it happened four months ago, as I've said, and I had that operation in Gotham General that does not exist anymore. I can remember the dread when we were moved out of the hospital, the anxiety that every moment could be our last. Fortunately, I was one of the lucky patients who didn't end up as that man's hostages, but still – it was a time when I realized how much I liked my life and how I didn't want it to end so soon and because of one madman's crazy, dystopian ideas. I feel slightly frightened again, as the thought of the Joker traipsing around the city is quite daunting, but luckily I will be spending the next few days away from Gotham and I am hopeful that by the time I return, this terrible criminal will have been apprehended. The news is a little bit too disturbing, so I turn off the TV and proceed with my work in silence, humming a well-known tune to myself for distraction.

Suddenly, I hear a meowing sound under my office window and I am so startled that I jump up in fright, knocking over my chair. Then, I laugh at myself and my silliness, hitting my forehead with the hill of my palm, as I remember that the sound belongs to the stray tabby that I have managed to partly domesticate. One day, I will take it home and it will truly become my cat. Until then, I will have to shower it with cat delights, buying its love. Dogs are blindly loyal; cats are speculative creatures. I prefer felines to canines because when I was little girl, I was attacked by a dog and I have resented that species ever since.

I'm glad that the cat – I simply call it Tabby – jerked me out of my working mode because it is time I left for Metropolis. It is almost half past five now and I don't want to be late for dinner. I am never late. I always come on time, or early; but never late. I grab my coat off the chair at my office desk, put it on and walk towards the back door, turning off all lights on my way out. I have a purse in one hand and a can of cat food in the other. I unlock the back door and the cat snakes around my ankles, purring in delight. I kneel down and scratch her head (Tabby is a girl); she likes that.

"There you go, Tabby," I say, open the can of cat food and place it on the sidewalk, right next to the door. I can't let her stay inside while I'm away, but I trust she will find a warm place and food while I'm not the city. I scratch her head again, crouching by the animal, and then I rise on my feet to lock the door, looking up.

Everything that follows happens in slow motion. I am so surprised that I can't scream and my brain has difficulty processing the situation. All I know is that I am in a lot of trouble; in grave danger; _mortal_ danger. And still, I can't scream. My vocal cords shrink, the keys rattle on the concrete as I drop them on the ground, and all I am capable of doing is gasp. This resembles a situation when you are swimming in the ocean, far away from the safety of the beach, unaware of the possibility of a lurking danger, and then suddenly, a gray, glistening triangle slices through the surface of the water and you know before you can even realise it that the triangle is a shark's fin and the chances of your dying are very high. You know the shark will come closer and sink its teeth into you, but instead of thrashing in the water and trying to swim away in a useless attempt to save yourself, to escape the inevitable, you grow perfectly still, hoping that the shark won't notice you; hoping that the shark is not interested in you at all and will simply swim away.

The fin I notice is the red, eternal smile one can never forget, a smile that can be recognised by anyone, anywhere. Then, the whole body of the shark is in my view and his name is the Joker. I can hardly believe it. I am standing in front of _the Joker_, staring right into his eyes that I now notice are so darkly brown that they are almost black. No, they _are_ black, and the only other colour in them is the poisonous absinthe encircling his endless pupils. His face is painted, but he is dressed in a shock of orange, courtesy of the Arkham Asylum, no doubt.

Finally, my mind has processed the situation I have just fallen into and the need to survive finally kicks in. I don't scream; that would only alert and irritate the shark. Instead, I twirl on my heels as quickly as I can and run back inside, grabbing the door with one hand and pushing to close it, thinking all the while, _Oh my God! What the hell is the Joker doing _here_?_ But I am not fast enough. His body crushes into the wood of the door violently and the movement propels me a few steps backwards, making me land on my back painfully.

"Is this how you greet _all_ your customers, hm? It's not ah, good for business, y'know."

His gruff voice slithers into my ears and before I know it, his hands are grabbing the lapels of my coat and pulling me up, none too gently. He is taller than me and he lifts me high enough to level our faces, making me hover on the tips of my boots. I can't look into his eyes, I can't, but his are boring into my face. They scare me. They are so empty, truly like a shark's eyes. They are empty because there is nothing good in them, nothing human. It's almost as if he's not human. At the thought, I whimper and he breathes out a soft giggle, unnerving me even more.

"Hey, _hey_, puppet," he says, shaking me just a little, then lowering my body, so that I can at least stand on the soles of my shoes. His hands are still squeezing the lapels of my coat. "Open your eyes, c'mon, open 'em u_p_."

His voice sounds almost kind and strangely indulging, but underneath there's a layer of menace and I know he won't wait a second longer; he won't ask me again. I'm too afraid to not listen to him and do as he says. I don't want to die, so I flutter my eyes open, my insides shivering. I have never been so scared in my entire life as I am now.

"That's more like it," he comments and pats my cheek with one hand as if I were an unruly child he managed to tame. "Meghan's Fabrics, huh? Nice little place. You ah, you Meghan?"

I nod several times, very eager to avoid being killed. I know how this man kills from newspaper articles and I don't want to die like that. He lets go of my coat for a moment. He hits the door into place with one foot, his eyes never leaving my face. He looks exactly like an experienced predator and I'm sure I'm pretty much the epitome of a scared, shivering, miserable and very unfortunate prey. He takes a step forward and bends a little, his face only inches from mine. I wish he didn't stand so close. My God, I'm so very scared and I can't scream. I can't even fucking _scream_.

"So, _Meghan_," he chirps like someone in a good mood, "I'm ah, I'm _sure_ you know _me_. And I be_t_ you can see a little something's..._missing_." He lowers his voice dramatically on the word missing, tilting his head just a little, his eyes sinking into mine. I feel so strangely violated in his presence. "I need...a new sui_t_," he announces matter-of-factly.

Now, I have to stare at him in disbelief. He wants...a _suit_? He has _got to_ be kidding me! I have to wonder: am I stuck in a grotesque alternate universe? Apparently, since of all the people in the world, _I_ get to be stuck with the Joker and _I_ have just been chosen to be his personal seamstress. I don't think that I entirely understand what he has just said.

He licks his lips really fast, like a snake slipping out its cleft tongue. It's funny how I keep comparing him to animals.

"Y'see, someone took it away and dees-troyed it," he says, contained rage evident in his voice. "But I need. My. Suit. _So_," his voice becomes pleasant again – or at least as pleasant as the Joker's voice can possibly be, "you will use your little fingers and make it." He wiggles with his own fingers in front of my face, as if to remind me what fingers are, in case I forgot. "The _exact_ replica of my suit," he adds in a voice that is almost sinister. It definitely makes the hairs on my arms rise. He offers me a challenging look of amusement. I conjure up his possible words in my head: _Can you do it, hm? I dare you. If you can't, well, your loss_. The loss of my life, I imagine. And if I don't do it, _exactly_ the way he wants it... I'd rather not be thinking about the consequences. He is clearly a man who wants something and has to get it when he wants to, the way he wants to.

"M-me?" I stammer out, my voice barely above a whisper. It's hard to talk normally when you're shivering.

He rolls his eyes impatiently and I flinch, fearing that I said something very wrong and that he will punish me for it, but he does nothing, simply breathes out and says, "Yeah, _you_. Do you ah, do you see anyone _else_ in here?"

He looks over his shoulder and then over my shoulder and shakes his head playfully. "See, the tailor who made my_ first_ suit for my _grand_ entrance into Gotham's society is..._dead_, un-for-tu-nate-ly. But I'm thinking, if little Gambol thought _this_ place," he waves his hands around, his eyes darting across the room, "was good enough for him, then it's definitely good enough for little old me."

I have to wonder – did he kill that tailor to shut him up or did the tailor actually not die by the Joker's hand? There's no way to tell and I'm not going to ask the man standing in front of me, so I keep quiet. The truth is, I don't really want to know. The less I know, the better. I know that I don't want him to catch a whiff of my fear in the air quivering around us, so I have to be good and play my part well. This is about survival, after all. Luckily, the daze of shock is leaving my head and I can think more clearly. I know what I want to do and it is simply to survive. For that, I mustn't resist and I have to be brave.

It is very difficult to do this, but I swallow and say, as calmly as I can, with a bit of the authority of the businesswoman that I am.

"Can you pay?"

For a moment, I fear his reaction. Perhaps I went too far too soon. But then, an unexpectedly brave thought enters my mind: If I am meant to die, I want to go with dignity.

He is looking at me with amusement flickering in his eyes, as if deciding whether I'm fun or not.

"Oh, I have a _recompense_ in mind," he answers. "Y'know, I really _am_ an honest guy. I always give people only what they..._deserve_. I'll give _you_," he says and jabs an index finger into my shoulder, making me gasp at the rough, unexpected touch, "what you deserve." Then, he nods.

The answer is vague and scary, and I don't like it. I force myself to ask, "What do you mean by that, sir?"

The word sir comes out of my mouth automatically and again, I feel like I said something wrong, but once more, I'm lucky that I didn't, apparently. He lets out a guttural chuckle.

"I go by Mr J," he informs me. "Sirs are too...formal and pre-dee-cta-ble."

"Then...what did you mean by that...Mr J?" I manage to ask again, surprised that I even dared speak again.

He shakes his head, closing his eyes for a second, and focuses his gaze on me again. "Business first," he demands. "How about we go to your...sewing workshop first, puppet?"

"O-okay." I hate myself for stammering, but I would like to see someone, other than Batman, who wouldn't stammer in the Joker's presence. I don't really think that such a person exists.

"This way," I manage to add, pointing my thumb behind me, over my shoulder.

He smiles, stretching his eternal grin into something wider and more grotesque. I manage not to flinch this time, at least.

The fingers of his left hand create a vice on my right arm, just above the elbow, and I panic. He is touching me again and I hate it.

"C'mon," he prods, shaking me a little, and I begin to walk, my small steps out of sync with his long ones. I try not to trip very often, but every now and then I do and when that happens, he always pulls me up roughly.

As we walk towards my sewing workshop, I feel his menacing presence next to me, as our sides are more or less fused. He is humming a melody to himself, creating a falsely relaxed atmosphere, and all the while I am thinking: _the Joker wants me to make him a suit_. I haven't even asked him why and when. My face is hidden behind the maroon mane of my long, brown hair and I allow a tear to trickle down my cheek, but I keep the rest of them clogged. If I start truly crying, I will not be able to stop and something tells me that he wouldn't like that, so I don't want it, either. I am just so scared and I just want to go to my family. I want to escape, but there's no way that I can think of.

I can think of a lot of_ if's_, though.

If I didn't try so hard to be acknowledged by the best, I would never have accepted a mobster's order for a suit.

If I wasn't such a coward, I would never have accepted a mobster's order for a suit.

If I'd never accepted a mobster's order for a suit, my store would be exempt from crime and Gambol wouldn't have come to my store.

If Gambol hadn't come to my store, the Joker wouldn't know about it and he wouldn't be in here right now.

I wouldn't be in danger.

And I wouldn't be in danger if I wasn't so obsessed with my work and if I refrained from organizing and scanning the sketches today. I should have just forgotten about it and gone to Metropolis at noon, to spend some quality time with my relatives in the afternoon already, and not in the evening when everyone will be tired and will go to bed soon.

But those are if's and the reality is different: the Joker is inside my store and he wants me to make him a suit. I can't decline because he'll kill me in that case. He might even kill me anyway. I want to be with my family and I want to be safe, but I can't have that.

Today, absurdity has reached a new level.


	2. Chapter 2

Greetings! I would like to thank you for reading and reviewing the first chapter of _The Seamstress_. Your interest and feedback are much appreciated. I would also like to thank those who have favourited this story: I hope to hear from you too!

In the third chapter, I will reveal more about my OC. You could say I am a fan of slow characterization.

Enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER 2**

Every tailor-made clothing item begins with a sketch and taking one's body measurements.

I dread doing both.

First of all, he wants an _exact_ replica of his suit. I have an eye for clothes and it is very easy for me to remember exactly what a person was wearing at one point in their life. I remember the Joker's suit very well. It is hard not to keep in mind that flamboyant image. I remember a guilty moment when I first saw his image on TV and my first thought was an appreciation of the criminal's original suit. That memory still makes me cringe. It's hard to forget that I ever spared a good thought for this... _psychopath_.

But what if I don't remember the purple suit all that well, after all? Will it piss him off and hurt me? My imagination is running wild and some of the possibilities seem absurd and very painful. There is also the question of fabrics. Do I have everything he needs? I think I do, but my mind is spinning and it is hard to think entirely clearly. I always have enough fabrics at my disposal; but do I have enough of the _right_ fabrics of the _right colours_ this time? I hope that I do. I already have an idea in my head, but I really don't know how I am going to execute it with shaking fingers and with a mind that is both empty and in turmoil, which is a ridiculous paradox.

Second of all, I will have to take his body measurements and I am definitely not keen on the idea of having to touch _him_. I don't know how I am going to survive _that_.

I remember another thing: how much time do I have to finish the suit? And most importantly: is there a future for me after I have finished the last seam? I can't see my future at the moment and this frightens me. I feel like a sacrificial vestal in an ancient land, standing on the edge of an abyss, about to be thrown to a pack of hungry, man-eating beasts.

I manage to think about all of these things as we are walking towards my sewing workshop, silent and grim. Well, I am sure that _I_ look grim. I wouldn't know about _him_, hovering by my side, his gripping fingers promising to leave an ugly bruise on my arm, but given his reputation, I'm quite certain he's having fun, seeing how scared I am of him and what a perfect opportunity he has for torturing a fellow human being. I always expected him to be a very chatty man, but right now, he is silent and although I prefer him this way, the silence is unnerving. Finally, we reach the door of the workshop and I open it slowly, the stale air of the room hitting my nostrils. I smell fabrics and I smell my own fear. I graze the switch on the wall to my left with the fingers of my free hand, sweaty with fear, and the room is soon bathing in the garish light of the fluorescents. There are no windows in this room, but there are ceiling air vents.

I turn to him timidly, only because I have to, and manage to say, "There's – there's my working desk," and I point to it, its surface cleaned and my white Brother XL-2600i sewing machine standing on top of it. Needles, threads and other necessary items are stored inside the desk drawers, neatly organized, so that I never have to search for them. I can simply take them out at any time, knowing precisely where they are, even with my eyes closed. At the end of the long and narrow room, occupied by six working desks (including mine) and several half-dressed mannequins, is a door and behind that door is the storage room, filled with numerous fabrics and sewing necessities. I am proud of my little kingdom, but right _now_, I feel _no_ pride. I simply feel endangered. A new endangered species in Gotham: tailors and seamstresses.

He gives my desk a look and snorts. I am discomfited yet again – what is _that _supposed to mean? I have decided that I will follow his orders and not ask too many questions. I feel like the greatest coward that ever lived, but I don't have a death wish. He is no common criminal that I would probably dare kick in his sensitive area and run; this is _the Joker_.

I can feel the shaking of my body, but I can't stop it. He says nothing, simply stares into my face with that amused expression of his on his face, so I venture another comment. "I, uh...I will have to draw a...a sketch first."

"You're the professional," he says and points to my desk. "Ladies first."

He finally releases my arm, which feels numb, and I nod a bit shakily, massaging the hurt flesh with the hand of my left arm. I walk to the desk with swift, yet careful steps, shedding my coat and throwing it over the back of my swivel chair once I reach the desk. I turn around and he's already by my side, his height towering above me menacingly. I gulp, hoping he didn't notice that I did. I sit down on the chair and open the top drawer on my left, taking out a few sheets of paper, a pencil, a rubber, a pencil sharpener and a batch of coloured pencils, while he begins to open the drawers on my right.

I watch in horror as he rummages through _my things_ so very carelessly, tossing some on the desk or even on the ground, but never back to where he found them. Thimbles fly, accompanied by sewing threads, safety pins, buttons, tailors chalks, needle threaders, seam rippers, hemming webs and so on. He seems to be distracted, but I can just tell that he's watching me from the corner of his eye, very alert. He giggles occasionally and I just stare, deciding whether to stop him or keep quiet. His hand grabs a pair of scissors and I decide to keep quiet, after all. His presence alone is unnerving; his presence and a pair of scissors combined are quite terrifying.

Suddenly, he stops fumbling with my sewing necessities and shoots me a demanding look, making me flinch, which manages to elicit an amused chuckle from his throat.

"I, ah...I suggest you start doing the _sketch_," he speaks, flourishing the scissors in the direction of the coloured pencils and sheets of paper. "The suit's gotta be ready in two days and we don't wanna be late, no, no, _no_."

My reaction is instinctive. Clearly, he has _no_ idea how these things work. I am just _one person._

"Two days! Are you _nuts_?"

My already wide eyes turn into saucers, my heart hammering so hard that it wants to rip through my chest. I am perfectly still, _petrified_. He bends down, his face hovering mere inches away from mine, and captures my blue eyes with his black ones, tilting his head just a little. His eyes are unreadable, but I _can_ see hints of anger in them and I know that's not good.

_You pissed off the Joker, Meghan. Just great!_

"_Language_," is all he says, his voice laced with the undertone of a growl, and I find myself nodding like a maniac. "I don't like i_t_," he adds softly, but it's a very serious threat. From the corner of my eye, I see him spread the scissors between his thumb and index finger, the blades screeching. My heart falls into my soles.

"I didn't mean – " I begin with a quivering, high-pitched voice that is betraying my panic.

In that moment, the ringing of my cell phone in the pocket of my coat tears through the impossible silence – quite literally saved by the bell – and the sound is so unexpected that I jump on the chair, yelping a little. He ignores my reaction and reaches over my shoulder, making me shrink under his arm against the desk, and pulls my coat off the chair. He finds the pocket fast and takes out my cell phone, the melody of Mozart's _Eine kleine Nachtmusik_ sounding entirely out of place. He looks at the screen, then at me and asks,

"Who...is _Sarah_?"

My sister. Oh my God, this phone call is my solution and he is holding the phone in his hands.

I swallow and answer, my voice rising barely above a whisper. "I am expected at dinner tonight, in Metropolis. It's Thanksgiving," I say almost hopefully, although he probably doesn't care about holidays and families at all. "She's...she's a friend," I feel compelled to add.

I say a lie. I don't want to expose my family. Somehow, I don't want him to know about them.

"I should probably take the call," I say carefully. "She's...she's capable of coming here if I don't..." I trail off. "I could tell her I'm...I'm sick and – "

"_Is_ she now?" he drawls out, mischief glistening in his eyes.

No, no, I'm only making this worse. "W-what?"

The phone still ringing, he takes my jaw between the thumb and the other four fingers of his right hand, squeezing and shaking it a little. I can hardly breathe from the shock and his actions definitely shut me up. The ringing phone and the scissors are in his left hand.

"You..._stammer_ too much," he says simply, cancels the call and throws the phone across the room.

It crashes against one of the desks and by the sound of it, it has just fallen apart. I gulp down the tears that want to emerge and somehow manage to keep my eyes on his, although it is _incredibly_ difficult to do so. Finally, he releases my jaw, which is tingling from the unpleasant touch, and plops himself on the desk directly behind mine, which is the desk belonging to my best friend Louise.

"Get to wor_k_," he commands, smirking, and I turn around eagerly, grabbing the pencil.

I can feel his eyes burning a hole into my back and I hear him move, his fingers desecrating my friend's desk, whether out of boredom or pleasure it's impossible to say. All I know is that I can't bear the thought that he's behind me and I can't see what he's doing. I'm afraid that he might hug my neck with his arms and break it, or perhaps tear it open with those scissors. I have to stop thinking about what he might do to me because frankly, he might do _anything_ and that's one stunningly scary thought. Instead, I focus on other things as my fingers guide the pencil across a sheet of paper. If he wants the suit to be done in two days, I will have to work _extremely_ hard, with very little rest or none at all, which will be very exhausting. If I am tired, I can't work very well, but he will want me to, I just know it. I will need food and water and the fridge in the storage is almost empty. Why does he need the suit so soon? What happens in two days? What kind of _recompense_ was he talking about?

This is all very ironic. I've hated clowns ever since I saw the movie _It_ and now I have one crazy clown in my store.

_God, your sense of humour is lacking_.

Some time has passed, with me nervously sketching away and with him doing God knows what behind my back, occasionally murmuring to himself, or humming, or even letting out a giggle. He is constantly making noises, as if it's physically impossible for him to be still for even a second. I'm surprised to realise that I'm not only scared now, but that's he's actually starting to get on my nerves, big time. I am taking this commission seriously, although he probably won't pay me for it. My life depends on his damn purple suit and I need quiet concentration that he, of course, won't give me. He doesn't care about me. He only cares about the suit. I am probably worth much less that the suit. And all _I_ can care about is how I will get out of this mess alive.

Why me? It's a useless question. So he knew Gambol and that led him to me. In the end, this mess is my fault.

After about half an hour, according to my wristwatch, I am done with the basic sketch. I sketch and colour fast. Now, I will sketch piece by piece: the trousers, the coat, the shirt, the vest, the jacket and add the measurements once I've taken them. He will have to go somewhere else for the shoes, the socks and the gloves because I don't do those, and I hope he'll be happy with one of the ties I have in the storage. I decide that I have to turn around and ask him if I got the image of his suit right. I have to overcome my fear of him and be the professional woman that I am. My life depends on it. It's the most common thought in my head ever since he told me what he wants. I just realise now that he himself never told me how his first suit looked like. He just _assumed_ that I knew. Among other things – killer, psychopath, misogynist, bogeyman – I label him as a narcissist. I really am lucky that I have an eye for clothes and a good memory for them.

I put down the pencil and turn around, only to gasp aloud and jump a little on the swivel chair. How long has he been standing _behind me_?

"Uh, sorry I _scared_ you," he offers, but his voice and the familiar look of amusement in his devilish eyes betray that he means the exact opposite.

"I..." I remember his comment about my stammering and force myself to act as if I were actually brave, or at least brav_er_. "Do you...approve?"

I word my question carefully and show him the sketch with trembling fingers. I cannot _not_ shake in his presence; the shaking is something I just can't seem to get rid of. Could one be comfortable bathing with a shark? I don't think so.

He doesn't reply to my question. He regards me with interest, which makes me cringe inwardly. During this overwhelming moment, I remember that I have a phone in the storage and a plan forms in my mind.

"I am thirsty," I blurt out, which is true, but can also serve me well.

"Sooo?" he says lazily and waits for me to say more – if I dare. But I do, because now I have to.

"I have some orange juice in the fridge in the storage room over there," I manage as coherently as I can and move my eyes in that direction, showing him the way. "Can I...can I have some before continuing? I can work better if I'm...happy," I explain and the moment the words leave my mouth, I know how ridiculous they sound, and how untrue. I could eat and drink the best food and juices right now, but with him as my company, everything would taste like dirt and ash in my mouth.

"_Happy_, hm? In-te-re-sting choice of word_s_."

He regards me with completely expressionless eyes and for a second, I panic that he might know about my intention, but he can't. He doesn't read minds, after all...does he?

Without a word of explanation, he grabs my arm again just like before – the same arm, too – to hoist me up and I try really hard not to whimper because one, he is touching me again and two, the flesh of my right arm is still raw from his previous touch. Again, I try not to trip as our feet don't seem to be able to catch the same walking rhythm. I am really surprised that he is allowing me to satisfy my thirst. I was so sure he was going to refuse me wickedly, but he never seems to do what I expect him to do. That's probably his point, but I can't really say.

Mid-way, my escape plan – my _only_ plan – collapses because the ringing of a phone sounds again and this time, it's coming from the storage room since my cell phone is dead. As I might end up being, I deliberate morosely. When I hear the shrill ringing of the phone I wanted to use to call for help, provided that _he_ was not in the storage room with me somehow, my heart shudders into a frantic tempo and my breath hitches in my throat.

I know what he did to my cell phone. Not this phone too.

_No_.

"You keep a lotta phone_s_," he comments, looking at me knowingly, probably figuring out why I wanted to go to the storage room in the first place.

As if eager to thwart every single hope I have left, the Joker's steps widen and he jerks me forward violently, pushing me into the storage room, tossing me against a rack of already made coats for the winter season, and dives for the phone, hidden somewhere beneath one of the piles of fabrics, muttering incoherent words to himself. My brain begins to calculate very fast. He will find the phone in about seven seconds, no more, and probably not sooner. During this short span of time, he will not be watching me, as his eyes and fingers will be rummaging for the phone. The door of the storage room is open, the door to the sewing workshop is not locked and neither is the back door, I remember with mind-dazzling relief.

My decision is spontaneous and is a delicate fruit born out of sheer despair. As I fall against the coats, I scramble to my feet in the very next second and bolt through the door of the storage room, running as fast as I can, as if attempting to become the wind. Once I come through the back door and into the street, I will scream like a banshee and someone _will_ hear me and help me. Someone _has to_ because I will be dead before I make the first stitch if the Joker catches me.

I am running through the sewing workshop – when did the damn room get so long? – and try to not look back. If I look back, everything will be over; it's an unspoken truth – never look behind your back when you're running for your life. My legs feel wobbly, all of the emotions I have experienced since the Joker's arrival weighing them down. And then, something happens that adds to the misery of the day, proving to me that this day has come straight from the pits of hell. It really has, as I have been visited by the Joker, ordered to make him a suit, held hostage (technically speaking), had my cell phone of hope smashed and my other hopes thrashed. As if all of this hasn't been enough, my stupid, awkward, shaking legs mingle for a split second and I trip, landing on the floor just before the threshold of the door of the sewing workshop.

"No!" I scream and try to stand up fast, but it's too late.

He's already above me, his feet planted by either side of my body, his frame arching above my back. His fingers thread through my hair and he yanks me up, making me cry out in pain. Once I'm on my feet, he twirls me around and crushes me against the wall next to the door, the bones in my body cracking, or at least that's how it feels. Finally, I begin to cry openly.

"Now _that_," he hisses into my face, his elbow pushing against my throat and chin, his other hand squeezing my hair and pulling, "was a very _stupid_ thing to do...puppe_t_."

He breathes in deeply. "Y'know, for a moment there, I pegged you for a _smarter_ gal and I said to myself, No, _no_, she's _not_ gonna run if I let her. But. You. _Did_." He tilts his head forward and his nose is almost touching mine. He has the look of a demon from horror stories. I feel as if I'm about to be swallowed by a monster. "And _I_...don't like i_t_."

It was a test and I failed. Now, I know how murder looks when glimmering in a person's eyes. Now I know how it feels to stare into your executioner's face.

I fear that this time, I _am_ going to die.

All I can do is whimper.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

_When you are about to die, think about nice things, so that the transition from being something to becoming nothing will be more pleasant and chances are, your after-life might actually be quite a fun affair_.

My grandma's words echo is my head; she said them to me last year when she was dying of cancer in Gotham General. I was really sad when the doctors told us that it was only a matter of days before she finally passed away and I spent an hour crying in a toilet cubicle before coming to see my grandma with a false happy smile on my face. My glazed eyes betrayed me, however, and grandma began to comfort me, when it should have been I comforting her. Then, my sister came, just as teary-eyed as myself, and grandma spoke that sentence, chuckling a little. Then, she started to tell us about her great, wonderful adventures and she spoke about them every day, as much as she could, and in the end, although she was in tremendous pain and then barely conscious, she died with a smile on her face.

I am following her advice. I am thinking about nice things. I am remembering the last great thing that happened to me and his name is Tristan. I met him through Louise's boyfriend Justin. For a second, I close my eyes and I see his handsome face, his earlobe-length dark brown hair slicked back in a business-like manner, his lovely green eyes sparkling with laughter as he is telling me about a funny adventure at work. We have been on two dates and he told me that on our third date, he is going to kiss me because three was such a nice, magical number. The anticipation has been sweet and I might be even falling in love with him.

And I'm never going to see him again.

I cannot think about nice things and the second that I dedicated to them is gone. I open my eyes again and Tristan's face disappears, moulding itself into a white mask of horror, its eyes rimmed with black kohl and its lips grotesque and blood-red. The Joker is pinning me against the wall and his face is so close to mine that I can actually feel his breath snaking down my chin. I am both disgusted and terrified. He is a monster in the disguise of a man and the shaking of my body has increased dramatically. I don't want to die. I want to kiss Tristan and eat my sister's lemon meringue and kiss the cheeks of my first nephew or niece.

It's my fault that I am in this terrible position, but I don't deserve any of this just because an insane man wearing clown make-up decided to enter _my_ store and fuck up _my_ day, _and_ life. I am so very scared that I can hardly think and swallow. My mouth feels parched and my throat constricted, but I have to break the shell of fear. I have to fight. I have to find the strength. Please, I need to find the strength...

He tightens the grip on my hair. "You look scared," he says with mocking pity and the hand that has been at my throat pats my cheek. His fingertips on my skin revolt me. "Is it...is it the _scars_?"

His voice sounds amused, but his eyes are promising murder. His voice sickens me. _He_ sickens me. I think his eyes might have changed their colour because they seem pitch black now.

"Y'know," he says, his voice suddenly growing lower, as if he's tired of pretending we're just playing a game and he wants to speed things up, "I can, uh, _show_ you how they're _made_."

He spreads the scissors and glides one cold blade from the tip of my nose down to the left corner of my mouth. I can't help it; I whimper and wriggle a little. The blade of the scissors leaves my face, but his other hand, the one that had been tugging at my hair, chucks my jaw. His grip is tight and heavy and it feels as if my chin will explode under the pressure of his fingers.

"Is that a _no_?" he asks playfully.

He is so heavy against me. He's chocking me with his weight. The sensation is scaring me, so I force myself to speak in the hope that it will distract him and make him alleviate the pressure of his body on mine.

"Yes, it's a _no_," I hiss through my teeth. The word is not tainted by panic alone; I can hear anger in it, too, which gives me courage.

He chuckles; it is a deep, guttural chuckle that I had never heard come from any other person before. No, I _had_ heard a similar chuckle once before and this memory triggers something fierce inside me.

I lock my eyes with his, determined to at least _try_ and fight him. I am fully aware of the fact that my actions will kill me, but then again, isn't he going to kill me anyway, once the suit is made, _if _I ever get that far? Panic and fear shell-shocked me for a while, but now I'm emerging from their clutches and growing back my spine. I am not suicidal, but damn it, who the fuck does he think he _is_? Who gave him permission to come into my store, demand, threaten and demand some more, and think he can get away with it?

I was a victim once. I haven't thought about that part of my past in a long time, but it's all coming back to me now and this man threatening me right now is just like the guy who threatened me when I was seventeen. I know that he is far worse than my first attacker, but in my eyes, in this moment, they are the same. I fought then, and I will fight again. But strangely, I cannot bring myself to do anything. My mind wants one thing, but my body is not corresponding. Essentially, I am still scared and full of ideas that I cannot bring to life. My body is frozen, but my mind isn't and hopefully, I still have enough courage to speak.

"I...I won't beg you to spare me," I hear myself say.

My voice is silent, but apart from the initial uncertainty, I deliver the words firmly. I am proud to note that my voice sounds almost numb. I have managed to keep the panic out of it for now. And it's true, I don't intend to give him the satisfaction of begging him for my life. Hopefully, my will won't be tested with too much cruelty on his part. I'm afraid that, if he goes too far, I _might_ end up begging him.

He smirks, but remains in his position. "Playing tough, are you? How about we put your bravery to a _test_?"

I don't answer. I'm mulling over the possible witty responses, but his empty eyes are starting to make me feel scared once more and I feel his presence very clearly once again. It's hard not to, he's leaning against me.

"Don't tell me, puppe_t_," he begins, "that the ca_t_ got your _tongue_ now."

He chuckles at first, then his vocal chords lapse into a low growl and he looks feral. His eyes are still empty, like black glass, but inside the pupils, they are on fire too and I'm afraid it will consume me. The fire looks like murder. Before I can whimper, the room swirls around me as he pulls me from the wall and half drags me away from the door. I am so shocked that I don't react. I don't fight him. In fact, I even hold on to him tight to avoid tripping and falling on the floor. When I realise I'm squeezing the fabric of his ugly orange Arkham clothes, I feel sick and let go, allowing myself to trip. He drags me the rest of the way, our final goal, or rather his final goal, the nearest chair in the room.

He grabs me by my shoulders, squeezes them very hard, then lifts me up a little with his feral strength and slams my behind down on the chair. I feel like my hips have just hit my ribs, crashed through them and slammed against my jaw. That hurts _so much_. And for a moment, the force of my body meeting the chair in such a hard manner takes my breath away. Literally. Before I can recover it, he's already kneeling before me, and his elbows are drilling into my thighs. In high school, I had a boyfriend who nestled on my thighs like this, but that situation was incredibly romantic and it didn't hurt one bit. _This_ situation reeks of violence. Although I could try to shove my knees upwards to throw him back and run again, I don't. First, because I know he's too strong for me. I won't topple him over so easily. And two, I'm scared shitless.

I keep trying to make myself believe that I'm tough and that I can fight him just like anybody else, but the truth is that I'm bullshitting myself. The thought is frustrating, but my fear is stronger and I just want to survive. I do care about myself, so much, so I must not fight, must not, must not... He's no common criminal. I can't be careless.

I meet his eyes as soon as the shaking in my head stops, not wanting to bring more of his attention to myself than I already have. He looks half amused, half murderous, and the fact that he is actually amused is incredibly unsettling. I don't know who he is and how he thinks, but I have learned two things about him, from the media and from the hellish time we've spent together: he is unpredictable and he likes to kill. And, I managed to piss _him_ off.

"About that tongue o'yours," he continues with his gruff voice, "it would have been, ah, _better_, if you didn't have i_t_."

I stare at him in shock, but he just carries on. "With all the _phones_ around you," he states, nodding, "you feel tempted to ah, to do _stupid_ things, mhm-hm. _So_," he says almost enthusiastically, "I was thinking," and at that, he stands up, slams his hands down on my shoulders and pushes his face so close to mine that our noses are almost touching. I think my heart just stopped beating in fear, but I'm not sure. Everything around me is hazy and the only clear image in this room is the demon in front of me.

"I was thinking," he re-caps, "that if you couldn't tal_k_, you wouldn't be thinking about phones all the time, instead of, ah, what you _gotta_ do. You wouldn't do stupid things, like, hm, trying to _run_ away. From _me_. See, _I_," he stresses, "don't like people with _attitude_."

The scissors shine in my view again and I can't help it – I scream when he puts one leg on either side of the chair and settles his weight on my thighs, making me his chair. My scream seems to amuse him because he chuckles.

"You're just no _fun_," he speaks into my face.

I can't stand him. I can't. I feel sick in my stomach. I'll throw up if he doesn't get the fuck off me.

_Get off me, you monster! Get off me!_

I can't stand it when strangers get too close to me. My family and friends, fine. Tristan, fine. I've gotten over most of my traumas, so I don't feel freaked out anymore if a man tries to kiss me. Besides, Tristan is amazing. But this, this is just too intimate. He is a monster and he is too intimate with me. If he moves and I feel his crotch against me, I'll throw up, I know I will, and I don't want that. He'll probably kill me immediately. Right now, he's playing the game of cats and mice with me. I'm not so stupid, I know that. He's enjoying himself by tormenting me. I've watched shows on psychopaths, although he is not a _normal_ psychopath. But he is a man and a monster and...

Wait, wait, _wait_. Is he implying that he'll _cut my tongue off_?

"Now, I've done a_lotta_ things... But I've never cut off a tongue. How about _that_?"

He cocks an eyebrow and pats my cheek. "Hey, hey, sto_p_...wriggling, won't you."

I am wriggling? I _am_ wriggling. I'm trying to free myself from underneath him wordlessly, but in response, he sits down harder to keep me pinned down and that's when it happens. I feel that part of him that even monsters possess. As I am a generally polite person, I manage to turn my head away from him even though he doesn't deserve it. And then, I allow my stomach to flip itself inside out onto the floor of my sewing workshop. I hear him laugh and he stands up – not to give me space or to avoid getting covered in my vomit. No, he stands up to slap his knees, he is laughing so hard. I _hate_ him.

I scramble from the chair, fall down on my knees and bend over, away from the mess that came from inside me. I try to calm my breathing and my stomach, and I try to clog the ugly memory that the laughing clown has triggered. I am crying, but I'm not making any sounds. His laughter calms down and when I look up, he's already by my side, crouching, resting on his haunches.

"You're just too _much_," he says and I can only sniff. My extreme fear and my strong reaction are a compliment to him. He's an animal. He tilts his head in mock sympathy and nods. "Did a boy hurt you, poppet?"

_Almost_, I want to say, but I don't. There's only one thing I want to say; ask him.

I can't do this anymore. I feel so sick and so exhausted and I just can't do this anymore. One minute ago, I wanted to live. Now, I don't know what I want. I just want this to stop. I look at him with what I know are pitiful eyes and ask, barely audibly,

"Are you going to...kill me now?"

Because if he intends to do that, I just wish him to do it fast and with as little pain as possible. I am terrified of pain.

He stands up and pulls me up roughly. I can barely stand, but I have no choice.

"Do you want me to, hm?" he asks, the tone of his voice familiarly amused.

I don't answer. I don't want him to kill me, but in all honesty, I don't know what to say. I am too shaken to think coherently.

"I _think_," he says, "you're almost too _fun_ now to waste _too_ soon."

So he _is_ going to kill me at one point, just not right now. Before my mind can process the shocking confirmation, I hear footsteps coming towards the sewing workshop. I don't look at the Joker – I look at the door and see three men walking into the room.

"Oh, ah... Hope we're not interrupting anything, boss," one of them says.

I stare at the three men and, judging by how they look and by the fact that they work for the Joker, my mind manages to produce a coherent thought.

I am screwed.


	4. Chapter 4

I am sorry I haven't updated since December. The inspiration is there, the interest is there, but I confess that I felt a bit down because of the lack of readers. However, I decided that the readers I do have are very important and I thank you for reading and reviewing this story. Thank you!

Enjoy!

P.S. More action will follow, but for now I'm just trying to create psychological tension.

* * *

**CHAPTER 4**

I am still recovering from the shock that the memory of the almost-rape in my teenage years has created in my brain; when at a party, Jimmy Scott I had Spanish with thought that he could just take whatever he wanted – by force, if necessary, as was the case with me. Luckily, he didn't succeed because my sister Sarah smashed into the room, having heard rumours of Jimmy's intentions for the night – nailing another virgin drunk for the first time, for his personal record, and the choice was my humble self – and broke a vase on his head, the sharp, angry shards showering my face, bruising the skin a little, but I didn't mind. The assault was what I got for getting away from the party to calm down a nasty headache, as I was completely unused to alcohol. Not how I imagined a party.

My sister saved me, but the horror of the event has stayed with me. The memory of his sweaty fingers on my skin, his roaming hands, his disgusting mouth attacking my neck and face, and then the moment when I thought he was going to complete the aggressive violation... Just before he did – he was so very close to it that I could feel him – there came the cracking sound of salvation produced by the vase, accompanied by my sister's angry growl. My ordeal was finally over. Yet, it took me years to let any boy touch me. Although I was not actually raped, I felt raped inside and sometimes I feel that the scars are still healing. Tristan is a man I trust. I don't fear him and I _want _him to touch me. I know he would never harm me, definitely not intentionally.

Unlike the Joker.

This monster made me remember. He makes me feel very afraid. _Terrified_. He made my body react, spit out the disgust, the dread, the despair.

I cannot allow myself more time for recovery. Although my mind and stomach are still upset, my mind begs me to focus on the new arrivals. I'm scared to give them a closer look, but as if of their own volition, my eyes begin to roam, scanning their faces, their frames, their clothes.

Standing a few paces ahead of the trio is the man who spoke first when he and his gloomy companions entered my workshop. He seems to be my age and grudgingly, I have to admit that he is good–looking, in the sense of a typical dark-haired, dark-eyed bad boy who attracts girls the same way flowers attract bees. Or in his case, the way crap attracts flies. He is wearing a red cotton shirt, with the top three buttons unbuttoned to reveal his chest, and his tight black jeans fit him like a glove. His slicked-back hair and black cowboy boots add to his idea of a ladies' man. I'm not sure what to make of the necklace around his neck, as he chose a smashed bullet as the pendant. For a second, our eyes meet and I notice that he is assessing me appreciatively. The flirtatious sparkle in his dark orbs is making me nervous and suspicious, and I am happy to look away from him, only to land my gaze on the middle-aged man standing behind him.

While I have nicknamed the young thug Smooth Criminal, I can definitely call his companion Gentleman. He is dressed in a tailor-made midnight blue suit with thin white stripes and he looks every bit the part of a gentleman in his forties, his dark, greying hair completing the appearance. But I know he cannot be trusted. For one, he works for the Joker. Then, there is his cold, arctic blue gaze. And third, after noticing the mess I made on the floor, his lips curl in disgust and he begins to caress the gun tucked behind his belt. I gulp and, for an inexplicable reason, look up to see if the Joker has noticed Gentleman's reaction.

The Joker is looking at me with narrowed eyes and smiling lips, his hands perched on his hips casually.

"Boys," he drawls, "meet Meghan."

I am hardly surprised now when he grabs me by my upper arms and pulls me up roughly. I wobble on my feet a little, my heart beating fast.

"Meghan here," the Joker says, "had a little..._accident_."

He points to the mess that came from my stomach and smirks. Did he just _smirk_ at my misery? It is so very easy to hate him.

"Vincent, why don't you, ah, clean it _up_?"

I look at the men to see which one is Vincent and the third guy I somehow managed to overlook during my perusal comes out from the shadows of the hallway and I take an involuntary step back. The Joker senses my movement and crashes me back against him, making me gasp. Does he have to keep pulling me this way and that and treating me so badly? A useless question.

"No, no, no, _no_," the clown hammers out, his black eyes boring into mine. "Stay put." He says the words gently, in an almost calming way, as if trying not to scare away a frightened bunny, but I can detect the undertone of gruff menace. I gulp and look at this Vincent guy – or should I say giant – walking towards us.

He is one head taller than the Joker, of corpulent build, his bald scalp tattooed with images of toxic-green snakes writhing in red and black flames. But when he comes to stand next to the Joker, he actually looks sort of small and meek. Vincent could beat the shit out of the Joker; instead, he can barely meet the clown's eyes. His big hands are shaking and he is doing funny, twitching movements with his eyes. He spies a piece of unsorted fabric on a working desk, takes it, kneels down next to us and begins to obediently clean the floor. The power that the Joker has over this scary giant is both puzzling and frightening. It doesn't seem natural.

"Careful, Meg," the Joker purrs into my ear and I wince. I hate the feeling of his hot breath on my cheek. "We lost his pills and, ah, well, you _might_ look like a banana to this _gentle_ giant and he'll just...try to _peel_ you a_part_."

The Joker lets out a suppressed, yet clearly amused breathy chuckle. I couldn't be more shocked. Vincent is pretty much a walking time bomb that could explode at any moment. I figure – the Joker is pretty unpredictable himself. _Two_ men prone to extreme violence are on either side of me and it's the ultimate feeling of being trapped without an exit. I don't even want to know what Smooth Criminal and Gentleman are capable of doing to people. To _me_. I figure that, being in the presence of these men is like swimming in a tank of seemingly tame piranhas. But they _will _smell blood eventually and they _will_ bite, I just know it. What are their plans with me? With Gotham and its citizens?

For the first time, I shape the thought, _Where is Batman?_ I want Batman, here, _right now_! I want him to kick the living daylights out of these men and take me back to my apartment where I'll be safe. It's all wishful, delusional thinking, but nothing seems real anymore, anyway.

"Now that you know Vincent," the Joker continues, "say hi to Laurence," he points to Gentleman, "and Jack." So, Jack is Smooth Criminal's name. Kind of doesn't fit him. Not that I care, of course.

Jack winks at me and Laurence merely stares. All four men are scaring the crap out of me and I can't even hide from them. There's no safe corner when the Joker is around.

The Joker looks at Laurence and Jack and says, "You know your jobs, boys."

When the two goons leave the room, I don't feel relief. Instead, the tension inside me increases. At least they were a distraction, so that the Joker's entire focus was not on me; now, apart from the time-bomb Vincent, I'm alone with the clown once more and maybe, he's angry about me vomiting earlier. I'm so fucking scared!

Ignoring Vincent, the Joker releases my arm and my other hand shoots up to the sore spot immediately, trying to knead away the pain. The Joker raises an eyebrow at me, regarding me curiously. I really don't want him to come up with a way to play with me or give him a reason to conjure up any ideas concerning me, so I force myself to say, "I should...I should probably take your measures now."

I swallow hard, unnerved by the fact that he is suddenly so still and quiet. His mood tends to swing a lot and it keeps me hanging in uncertainty. What is he _thinking_ right now? I think I hate it more when he's quiet and still than when he's doing things,

In that moment, Jack re-appears, holding two suit bags in each hand. I have no idea what those are for. I mean, I know the purpose of suit bags, but I can't understand why the goon is holding two suit bags in his hands that clearly contain clothes. They don't look empty to me. They look very full. At least, I hope that clothes are in them. Sadly, one can never tell with these people. If one can call these men – or at least the Joker – people.

"Where do you want me to put these, boss?"

Instead of answering, the Joker walks to him, takes the bags and shoves them into my hands. The bags are pretty heavy. I look at him in confusion.

"Why don't you," the Joker addresses me, "get your measuring tape, Meg?"

So I'm Meg now. It's better than puppet, but frankly, I'd prefer it if he just completely ignored me and let me be. In any event, I nod, point at my working desk timidly – just so that he knows it's where I'm going, so there's really no need to run after me and hurt me – and walk over to the desk as calmly as I can, trying to show him I won't run again. I take the yellow measuring tape from the top drawer and hurry back to the Joker, just in case he gets impatient and comes after me, dragging me wherever he pleases. I know that if I survive this mess, I'll bruise badly and the imprints of the Joker's fingers will be all over me. The prospect sounds awful. If I get out of this alive, I don't want any souvenirs.

"I'll go with Laurence, boss," Jack says and leaves. This time, I feel a sort of relief. I don't want an audience when I'm taking the Joker's measures, although Vincent is still wiping the floor like an automaton that got stuck.

In fact, it seems that's exactly what happened. His hands are sliding across the floor jerkily, from left to right, from right to left, in almost even movements. He is staring at the floor, not blinking. Oh my God, is he..._seeing_ things? I swallow nervously and look at the Joker. Why did he even hire Vincent? I'm sure there's a logic to it that I don't really want to understand. I just hope Vincent won't snap any time soon. At least not when I'm around.

"Oh," the Joker says, "you might wanna open the _bags_ first."

He looks enthusiastic, almost as if he wants my opinion on whatever is inside the suit bags. Immediately, I pocket the measuring tape, lay one suit carefully across the nearest working desk and unzip the suit bag I am holding. I can't believe my eyes. I blink, and blink, and blink again. It's a finished purple velour coat and a suit jacket. Underneath it is a shirt with a gray and blue snakeskin pattern. At the bottom of the suit bag is a bole tie, purple leather gloves and diamond-patterned suspenders. Wait, I see custom-made argyle socks, too.

"What..." I whisper and look at the Joker shakily.

"Oh," he coos, "didn't I _say_?" He rolls his eyes. "I guess I just..._forgot_." His eyes are sparkling with mischief. He takes a step forward, his gaze locking with mine. "I only need _you_...to finish my trousers and, ah, my vest. That's _all_, Meg."

He made me believe I was going to have to make his _entire_ wardrobe in only two days, a task that was impossible, especially since – I can finally fully confess this – I own _no_ appropriate materials for his suit. At least, not the right colours. I was tortured inside because I knew I was never going to succeed and he must have known the truth of that. I memorised his suit in detail, but my memory was all I had to offer to this man in terms of making him the desired suit, the _exact replica_ of the one that either the police or the people at Arkham had confiscated. This monster clown has been fucking playing with me _the whole time_? Because, with the right-coloured materials, I can _definitely_ make the trousers and the vest in two days.

_Jerk!_

I want to punch him in the face. The consequences of it escape my notice for a moment. I want to _punch_ the clown and make him see _stars_. I am so angry with him, _so angry_, and my anger – no, rage – makes me brave enough to stare into his black eyes and curve my lips into an angry line.

"Oh, Meg, I'm _sure_," he speaks and pats my cheeks, "that you don't _really _want to go down _that_ road."

The words are said with an expressionless tone, the one I distrust the most when it comes to him. Also, am I really that transparent to him? Well, good, let him know how I feel, even if he'll suppress my need to express my anger.

"You wanted me to do an impossible thing, _knowing_ it was entirely impossible," I say flatly, clutching at the suit bag. "This is a _game_ to you? _I_ am a _game_ to you?"

"Now don't take it personally, Meg," he says happily. He lowers his voice, which creates a pretty dramatic and scary effect, adding, "It's just _business_. You do understand the laws of, ah, business, dont'ya?"

I understand the_ legal_ laws of business. But I don't say it.

"See, the guy who made _these,_" he pats the suit bag, "didn't. _So_, seeing how he was all cocky and how he became an _unwilling_ player, _I_..." He wriggles his fingers in the air, as if looking for the right word. "Made him _redundant_." He smiles at me. "He was...turning into a _squealer_. We can't have _squealers_ when closing a business deal, now _can _we, Meg?"

He takes a step forward and puts his heavy hand around my shoulders, squeezing me against his side. I let out a gasp, but don't struggle. I know by now that struggle is completely useless and only attracts more trouble. I almost drop the suit bag, but he catches it for me and shoves it against my chest, hitting my face a little. I hate how close we are, how trapped I am, how panicked I am becoming again.

"Did you kill him?" The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them.

He sniggers. "Would you like to know _how_ I killed him?"

I shake my head furiously, which makes him laugh. He squeezes me harder against his body and I have to suppress a whimper. "Well, I don't wanna brag, Meg," he says enthusiastically, "but I _can_ say that he died with a big, wide _grin_ on his face."

I look at him in horror and he demonstrates the big, wide grin for me, showcasing his yellowed teeth. I want to cringe, but then a knife flashes before my eyes. He is twirling it between his fingers.

"Like so," he says and gently glides the blade from my ear to the corner of my mouth. He is not hurting my face, but he is scaring me so much that I can hardly keep myself conscious. I can't breathe and my heart is beating so hard and loudly that I'm sure he can both feel and hear it himself. He could increase the pressure and draw blood from my skin if he wanted to. And there's always a chance that he'll want to do something I'm afraid to even think about.

"And so," he says and glides the tip of the knife very gently from my other corner of the mouth to the other ear.

Tears are gathering in my eyes. "Aw, sh sh sh!" he hisses into my face, releases me and wipes the tears from my cheeks while still holding the knife in his hands. "No need for _that_," he says gruffly, changing his tone from mock care to annoyance. "Right now, all I want is for you to start doing your _job_. Part of our _business _deal, hm?"

I nod and sniff, biting my lip to stop the tears. It's funny how just a minute ago, I wanted to punch him, not caring what happened afterwards, but now, I am so frightened and freaking weak. I hate him for making me act and feel so miserable.

"Wh-what's in the other suit ba-bag?" I stutter like an idiot.

"Glad to see you co-_operating_, Meg," he responds, takes the suit bag I'm holding and shoves the other one into my face. Would it kill him to act less like a brute?

I open the suit bag with trembling fingers – it contains the fabrics I need for the trousers and the vest. I allow myself to sigh in relief. Okay, I actually do have some hope now. I _can_ make the rest of his suit. And, if I behave and do everything he tells me, I _can_ survive this. He doesn't have to kill me. The whole of Gotham knows him, so I'm not an eye witness he has to get rid of.

Things might be looking up for me.

But there's another ordeal I have to survive first.

I have to take the Joker's measures. And I can just feel in my bones that it will be the ultimate humiliation. I will have to touch him and he will be watching the whole time, no doubt making me feel bad about it, inventing new ways to torture. But the sooner I start, the sooner this'll be over. Hopefully, not over forever, I muse.

"I'm ready," I say as firmly as I can and take the measuring tape out of the pocket of my pants.


	5. Chapter 5

Hello, my dear readers! I am REALLY sorry I made you wait for this update for such a crazy amount of time. I was busy working on my original fiction and I put aside this story, but you won't have to wait for so long again. I think that, if you agree, an update once a month would be a good and perfectly possible to write.

**Thank you all for reading and reviewing this story! Your attention is greatly appreciated!**

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**CHAPTER 5**

_I have to take the Joker's measures. And I can just feel in my bones that it will be the ultimate humiliation. I will have to touch him and he will be watching the whole time, no doubt making me feel bad about it, inventing new ways to torture me. But the sooner I start, the sooner this'll be over. Hopefully, not over forever, I muse._

"_I'm ready," I say as firmly as I can and take the measuring tape out of the pocket of my pants._

My parents always liked to advise me that procrastination has no purpose. Eventually, you have to do what you try to avoid so diligently, and the longer you avoid the inevitable, the worse it gets.

My parents never imagined their daughter having to take a notorious and very dangerous criminal's measurements, I'm sure. I know that right now, as they are enjoying themselves on their long-awaited Euro trip, they don't even suspect that I'm standing next to the Joker, about to take his measurements, so that I can make him the vest and the trousers, the last two pieces of clothing he needs to complete his unique wardrobe.

Did I tell mom and dad how much I love them before we parted at the airport? I know they are aware of it, but I wish I could tell them the words again. Every time I said them, every time I hugged them, was taken for granted by me. Now, those words, those casual hugs, seem like the greatest treasure one could ever possess. I wish I could argue with mom about her bringing me lunch to work – _I'm a big girl, mom, I can buy my own lunch_. I wish I could tell her that she's a great cook and that I actually love her attention, even though I fear my employees might see me as spoiled (which I know they don't, but I tend to imagine things sometimes). I wish I could dance a spontaneous waltz with dad in the living room; he taught me how to move on the dance floor. And to fish. We have been planning to go to Florida to try and catch a shark – my dad's great fantasy. Can I still do that? I find myself really wanting to take a picture of me and dad on a boat with a dead shark hanging between us.

My dad used to be my superhero, and to the woman who was once a scared girl who needed one, he still is. He would chase away the imaginary monsters under my bed. _Don't worry, Megs_, he would say and lie down next to me, trying not to fall off my small bed shaped like Cinderella's white and pink carriage. _Those monsters? They're afraid of me, see? They've run off and your mom is waiting downstairs to smack them with the ladle and kick them out of the house_. That would make me laugh and dad usually fell asleep next to me, so I'd feel extra comfortable and brave afterwards.

I wish my parents could chase away _this_ monster.

It takes all of my inner strength, or at least what is left of it, to force myself into action. My new customer doesn't like to be kept waiting, I'm quite certain. I'm scared, tired and even hungry, but my needs will simply have to wait. This is a game of survival and I must remain a keen player. I decide that it would be wise of me to always remain on my guard and appear obliging, but I have to be strong, too. Determined, yet ready to obey. Simply put, not a complete coward. So finally, I say,

"I suggest we go to the storeroom."

I point to the door at the back of the workroom, feeling the tiniest bit proud that my voice did not waver or that I didn't help myself to a dose of _erms_ and stammered vowels.

"It's where I usually take my clients' measurements. It gives them privacy. Unless you don't mind stripping to your underwear here." I actually look him in the eyes, quite professionally, and add, "Mr J."

I am slowly becoming the strictly-business version of myself and I find some comfort in the familiar transformation. My legs feel weak, but they're not actually shaking, so for now I'm fine, considering the situation. Perhaps I'm not fully aware just yet of what is about to transpire between me and the Joker; I do not particularly wish for awareness right now. I just want to get this over with, the sooner the better.

The Joker cocks his head and his cheeks twitch – perhaps suppressing a smile or a cackle – and then, half whispering "Cheeky" with his gruff voice, as if in strange appreciation, he turns me around by my shoulders and slightly pushes me in the direction of the door leading to the storeroom.

"Ladies first," he orders and I start to walk at a normal pace, my back straight, my interior relieved that I'm at least getting away from Vincent, even if it means spending some more time alone with the Joker.

Once inside the storeroom, I set down the heavy suit bags onto the working desk I have in the room and the Joker closes the door behind us with one foot. He is awfully quiet.

I suppress the shivers blooming inside me like mushrooms after rain. As I take the measuring tape out of the back pocket of my jeans, I manage to say, as casually as possible, "Could you, please, strip to your underwear?"

He takes a step forward, but I remain in place bravely.

"You, ah, you sure you want that, Meg?" he asks, his voice amused. "Might remind you of that guy again. Might make you puke. I wouldn't want any of _that_ on my new clothes."

He takes another step forward, runs his tongue across his upper lip and begins to unbutton his ugly, orange Arkham shirt. My fingers twitch; I'm nervous because now I understand that I actually asked the Joker to strip for me, and he is actually going to do it. Then, there is also what he said. I should ignore it, but when it comes to that event from my past, I don't want people to just _assume_ things. Obviously, he somehow understood the cause for my violent reaction before, and I can't stand the thought of him knowing, suspecting, guessing _anything_ about me. I want us to remain perfect strangers.

"I'm sorry about before, Mr J. I felt a little sick, but I'm fine now," I explain, hoping I don't sound forceful.

I know how absurd I sound. We both know I emptied my stomach while he was on me, torturing me, contemplating cutting my tongue out. My trying to explain anything to him feels like I am laughing at myself.

He is looking at me all the while, his fingers turning the buttons of his shirt, pushing them through the holes.

"You're like a _bunny_," he says. "Scared _so_ easily, hm?"

Scared so easily? I beg to differ. He was threatening me with a knife. _Anyone_ would get scared.

"Was it just your fear of knives, or did a _memory_… shake you up a bi_t_?"

I wish he'd let go of the matter. In all honesty, I can't decide what's been worse: the physical violence, or the mental taunts? All I know is that he never stops tormenting me. How can someone be made happy by the suffering of others?

After the third button, he becomes impatient and tears his shirt off. I want to avert my gaze, suddenly feeling ridiculously shy and very uncomfortable, but what I see makes me look and I forget about the taunts. His chest and abdomen are covered in scars. His pale skin, stretching over his averagely rounded male chest and his more or less flat stomach, is a mosaic of scars, varying in length, a picture of puckered, mutilated flesh and even of a more recent, angry red gash that has not managed to fully heal.

His skin is a map of violence and it is a shocking sight to behold. When I was fifteen, I suddenly wanted to be a doctor for one summer and to test my seriousness (and because I was begging for it), my parents let me observe my uncle who had a job as an E.R. doctor at Gotham General. I only helped with the beaurocracy, but I did manage to see a few injuries and gun-shot victims, so I can guess that the Joker has been shot at least three times (I think I expected more, and there just might be more signs of bullet-induced scars somewhere else), and stabbed and cut even more regularly. I am sure that, although I don't see it yet, his back offers a similar image. He doesn't seem to have any tattoos, though, and I confess that I expected to see one or two.

I look up to avoid gazing at his scars any longer, only to meet his intent gaze.

"It's rude to stare," he says. I don't know if he actually means it, or if he's just teasing me. I'm not sure about anything when he's around.

"I wasn't… I just…" I stop myself. I _won't_ stutter. I check myself and even lift my chin a little. "I can give you a bandage," I offer, pointing at the fresh scar. It's not bleeding, but the clothes he'll put on later might irritate it. I don't care how he feels, really. I'm just acting like a human being.

He looks at the scar as if he's forgotten it's even there, then seeks out my eyes again. I feel as if his gaze is pinning me against the wall.

"Just a scratch," he replies, "but I'll take you up on your offer before, ah, before I leave. Might need a box of bandages _later_."

For some reason, his words send a cold feeling down my skin. What is he planning? How many people will _die_ tonight? It's Thanksgiving! How can one decide to kill _tonight_? The idea is disturbing and, in all honesty, outrageous.

Before I know it, I say the words aloud, my outburst completely spontaneous. "But it's _Thanksgiving_!"

"_Yeah_?" he drawls out, assessing me with curiosity. "_Do_ explain," he adds and I know I have to say more or there'll be consequences.

My fingers abusing the measuring tape viciously, I look at my shoes and speak through the lump forming in my throat. I should never have said anything. I have to tread carefully, but that's very difficult in my situation.

"Whatever you're planning," I whisper, "goes against what tonight is about. Surely you see that… That is, I…"

"Don't go all senti-_mental_ on me, Meg!" he exclaim, giggling a little. I steal a look at him and see that, contrary to his giggle, he doesn't look amused this time. "This is the _real_ world." He walks over to me, grabs me by my chin and forces me to look at him. I push against his chest, but stop immediately. The feel of his naked skin, of his scars, is something I want to avoid. "And in the _real_ world, some people _have to_ work on _holi_days." He makes me nod a little. "I, ah, I like to work every day. Would you go and tell a doctor on duty to _not _do his duty?"

So what, is he trying to be the Grinch? Trying to make people hate holidays and what they represent? My eyes are tearing up, but surprisingly, this is more in anger than in fear. My sister is waiting for me, her delicious turkey she's been working on all day ready, her husband about to carve the meat, the baby – my niece or nephew – in her womb stirring. I should be there to feel it kicking against the walls of my sister's belly. _My_ _family_ is waiting for me and I _can't be there_. My family must be worried sick by now and I can't reassure them with my presence because this psycho wants to fuck up Thanksgiving.

"You don't have to do whatever it is you intend to do," I say, knowing that it sounds stupid, that it won't have any effect on this man.

"Oh _don't_ I?" He looks amused again, which is a bit of a relief to me. The look in his eyes that he had just two seconds ago, that blackness stirring in his orbs, is what is truly frightening.

"Trying to get on my _good _side, Meg? Convince me to be a _good_ man? That there's _redemption_, even for a guy like _me, _so that you can go and eat your traditional turkey?" He chuckles and shakes my chin again. His fingers will leave ugly bruises. "Don't be so _naïve_. It's not healthy in a woman your age." He nods emphatically. I glare at him. I sincerely believe there is no redemption for a guy like him.

"But the thing is," he continues, "I don't _take sides_, Meg, no. And, y'know, I really don't _have to_ do _any_thing, you're, ah, you're actually _right_ on this one." He nods emphatically. "No, I… I _want to_."

And that's the scary thing. I close my eyes, so I don't have to see his empty shark's eyes. He doesn't have to say more – whatever he does tonight, on a day that stands out from other days of the month, will have a bigger effect on people than on any other day. Especially today, Gotham will surely remember whatever he has planned for it. I know that I will remember, until the day I day. I only hope that today is not _my_ special day.

"Oh, no, no, _no_, look at me when I'm talking. Don't hide from me," he commands, his voice betraying a hint of anger.

I just want to go home. I just want to be safe and I realize that it's actually me who's stalling. _I_ ticked him off. If I hadn't said anything, I could have been done taking his measurements. Instead, I have his full attention again. I don't want to listen to his logic or fight it. My mind wants to contradict him, but I am afraid to, and besides, the more _I_ talk, the more time this whole process of making clothes for him will last.

"I just…," I whisper, then clear my throat to speak louder, "Can I just take your measurements, please? I'd…I'd like to start sewing your clothes. That's why you came here in the first place, didn't you?"

He clicks his tongue. "Aren't we eager to get your hands all over me, hm?"

My eyes widened automatically. "Oh, no, I… I didn't mean it like _that_!" I push against his naked chest and he lets me go.

He chuckles, saying "You just like to worry, dont'ya?", then stabs his thumbs between the fabric of his pants and the skin of his belly. Oh shit, the Joker really_ is_ going to strip to his underwear in front of me and I panic. Technically speaking, he should, as that's necessary for me to take his measurements properly. But I can never forget that he's not an ordinary customer with a lot of money under his thumb.

"Wait!" I exclaim before I can help it. It's just that… If he's naked under the pants, I think I'll faint. He's the last person in the world I'd ever want to see naked. The last time I saw a man naked was when Scott was about to rape me. I am definitely not fond of the memory. Suddenly, I begin to panic even more. I can't prevent myself from starting to shake and I hug myself fervently, gnawing on my lower lip so fiercely that the flesh cracks and a drop of blood trickles out, sending the sanguine taste to the tip of my tongue. My nails are digging into my upper arms and I am considering bolting past him and through the door, regardless of the consequences.

The Joker arches one eyebrow, looking at me curiously, then rolls his eyes in obvious annoyance. He sighs deeply, pulling his pants down with one swift move, then steps out of the trouser legs.

He is wearing boxers. Black, ordinary boxers that reveal nothing.

I could cry from relief.

"You know, Meg, you are _very_ pretty," he begins and throws the pants on the floor. Half naked, he is no less imposing and menacing. In fact, to me he appears even more frightening now. He may be wearing boxers, but I still don't feel safe. The relief is gone.

_Please, please, don't rape me_. Scott started his assault with the you-are-pretty speech. I take a step back, but the Joker quickly follows my move, taking one step forward, resting his knuckles on his hips. Even with his shoulders hunched forward, he is still taller than me and I stop, afraid to continue my walking backwards.

"But I won't rape you. Not on my calendar." He adds a smirk and this time, just a simple smirk makes me wince. "Sorry, Meg."

I decide to believe him; it's just easier this way. I allow the relief from before settle on my shoulders once more and, swallowing down my anxiety in a manner I believe to be surreptitious, I face the Joker.

"Let's get to work then," I reply as if none of our conversation had transpired and I unfurl my measuring tape from between my fingers.

"Now _I_ prefer _this_ Meg to the shivering mess from before," the Joker declares. "_That_ Meg was starting to… annoy me."

I really don't know what to reply to this. Instead of talking, I point to him with my index finger, then to the measuring tape in my hand, silently asking him for permission to touch him, although this is not exactly something I desperately want to do. I wish for him to change his mind, to say that he doesn't really need the suit, that he can create whatever chaos he has planned for tonight without it. Then he'd simply leave my shop and I'd be free. But of course, that's only my wishful thinking. I suppose I _am_ naïve, still hoping for something good to happen.

He beckons me closer with a wiggle of his index finger. "C'mere, don't be shy. I don't bite." He smiles. "Not always."

I sigh out a shuddering breath and take a big step forward, moving into his personal space. I feel very small and vulnerable.

"I need you to stretch out your arms for me, Mr J," I request, facing him uncertainly.

His eyes boring into mine, mischief sparkling in the black pits, he lifts his arms like vast wings. I am expecting a witty remark, something along the lines of 'Only don't get too greedy, but he doesn't deliver a word.

"Thank you," I manage to say and with slightly trembling fingers, I apply the measuring tape to his shoulder. I can't believe that I'm touching him voluntarily, so directly, so_ intimately_, but I don't dwell on it. I draw the tape to his wrist, remove my hands from his skin and write down the number on a piece of paper on the working desk. Then, I turn back to him.

I clear my throat. "I have to wrap this around your neck," I inform him.

"Go right ahead," is his prompt reply and I carefully, and quite nervously, wrap the measuring tape around his neck, touching his dirty curls with my fingertips, feeling the strong, steady pulse under the skin. For a second, an image presents itself in my brain. The image shows me pulling at the measuring tape, squeezing hard, strangling him. Actually, I think I'd try to do that if it worked, but I know it wouldn't. He'd snap me like a twig and go terrorize some other seamstress or tailor. I am aware of the fact that I am dispensable; replaceable. My life means nothing to this man.

My hands abandon his neck, jot down the number and return to the next task: his chest. I have to briefly embrace him to get the measuring tape behind his back and then across his chest.

"Hm, you smell _nice_," he speaks. "Like… vanilla, don't you?"

I blush in embarrassment. "Vanilla shampoo," I explain and contemplate a polite smile, but don't deliver the gesture. I mustn't ignore him, but I won't go too far. I still have some dignity left.

"A guy could just _eat_ you, Meg."

I hurry measuring the circumference of his chest and move on to his waist. I am being too slow for my taste. I want to have super powers and speed-measure him in one second. The situation is so ridiculous and torturous that I could cry, but I can't. I think I'm in too much of a shock, what with my touching the Joker and all. As I slither the measuring tape around his waist and accidentally brush a spot under his belly button, his stomach depresses, then flattens out again. He chuckles and I blink in disbelief. The Joker is ticklish? _He_ is _ticklish_? Something so innocent feels surreal on him. I am tempted to laugh, but again, I don't.

Could I tickle him into letting me go?

Stupid idea.

Now comes the really hard part: the inseam, which is the distance from the uppermost inner part of one's thigh to his ankle. I kneel on one knee, feeling strangely dirty for doing this. I need a few seconds to make myself touch the tape to his inner thigh, below his crotch. Oh, God, this feels… it's just so… _horrible_. It feels as if I'm violating myself. I'm on the verge of tears, but I swallow them down bravely. I am a professional. I can do this. I can do this. I _can_ do this. I think.

It's when I stretch the measuring tape down his leg to the bottom of his ankle that he asks me, "Who raped you?"

I shoot up to my feet. "No one did," I retort, jotting down the number furiously. "Okay, we're done with the measurements. Now it's time for me to sew, Mr J." This time, I smile weakly. "You can dress back."

"I asked you a question," he replies, a touch annoyed, "and I asked you _nicely_."

I start rolling back the tape, not looking at him. "Well, I believe it's my constitutional right not to reply."

"Is it, now?"

He saunters to my side and puts a heavy hand around my shoulders. Not _this_ again.

"Did you ever wanna _kill_ him, Meg?" he says into my ear as I continue to roll back the tape in place.

Something snaps inside me. I am tired, hungry and scared. I've been scared for too long in the course of one hour. It's unnatural to feel the way I do. So I spill out the truth, to him of all people.

"_Yes_," I snap, startling myself.

He smiles widely. "And uh, why didn't you? Why didn't you… _stab_ him? _Cut_ his throat? _Gouge_ out his eyes? _Cut_ his thing off, then _spill_ his guts? I've met women who would have done all of it to a guy who so much as _looked_ at them funny." He cocks his head in curiosity.

"Because it's _wrong_," I say firmly, looking him in the eyes. "It's not how crime is solved, by just... by just _killing_ anyone who ever wronged you. We have a justice system for that."

"Hm," he murmurs and lets go of me. "You believe in _justice_, Meg. Justice takes care of e-veh-ree-thing in your world. But it's all a lie. Justice is _weak_." He nods. "At least the type _you_ believe in. But Gotham's justice _is_ a fragile little thing." He inches his face to mine. "It's a derelict building with few good beams. And when I take out those beams, y'know, the ones that haven't been eaten up by worms of corruption just yet, the building will collapse like a badly built house of cards. _That's_ your justice, Meg. Your naivety."

He walks away, picks up his Arkham clothes and looks at me again. "If you're a good girl tonight, I'll show you. I gotta say, Meg, you're a pretty interesting little thing. You're got some potential, after all."

He dresses and begins to explore my storeroom.

I collapse onto the chair by my working desk.

What have I gotten myself into?


	6. Chapter 6

Hello! **Thank you** all so very much for reading this story and for your reviews!You are wonderful.

It only took me a month to update this time, so there's definitely progress.

This chapter was not the easiest chapter to write, but I hope it doesn't disappoint. I wonder what you'll think after you've read it. I hope you tell me in your reviews.

I would just like to point out that there is **no romance** in this story.

Enjoy!

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**CHAPTER 6**

The Joker is gone. I don't know where he went after I took his measurements, but he left the storeroom and placed Vincent inside the room, by the door, to play the part of my guard. Vincent, who is as big and tall as a wardrobe, whose bald scalp is tattooed with terrifying images and who is, simply put, crazy.

I am supposed to work on finishing the rest of the Joker's attire in the storeroom and the Joker had Vincent bring in my sewing machine and all the necessities I requested, but although I'm a good seamstress, I wonder how I'll ever make a good job with trembling fingers. There is another problem. By now, I can't ignore my stomach anymore. Despite the stress I've been through, and despite the fact that I was sick only a while ago, I am as a hungry as a wolf. I could eat a whole turkey by myself, including the dessert. What I wouldn't give for a bite of my sister's cranberry pie. Sarah makes the best pies in the world. I can't stop thinking about her pies and when my stomach growls like a little forest monster, I actually make myself look at Vincent, so that I can forget about the hunger. Looking at the huge, frightening, unbalanced Arkham-escapee definitely shrinks my stomach and shuts it up for a few minutes.

I open the suit bag with the finished pieces of clothing. I take out the coat, put it on a hanger and then on the rack. I will iron and press it later. Not that he asked for such meticulous treatment, but I don't want him to find any fault with me, again, and complain – his way. I do the same with the suit jacket, briefly admiring my predecessor's work. The tailor had great skill and I wonder if I ever met him anywhere, out on the streets, not even knowing he was the man sewing the Joker's clothes. I actually feel sorry that he died, although I never knew him. I'm sure that I didn't because all the tailors and seamstresses I know are alive. I wonder how the Joker killed him. I remember him saying that the tailor left the world with a smile on his face, which can only mean one thing – the infamous Glasgow smile. I begin to suck on the inside of my right cheek, trying not to imagine how painful such a wound must be. It is possible that the tailor died because of blood loss. It sickens me to think that he was gulping down his own blood because, with the amount of it spraying from the wounds in his cheeks, the man really had no other choice but to let it flow down his throat. I suck the soft, untouched insides of my cheeks between my teeth, a nervous reaction to the vivid picture I conjured up in my head, of a silver blade sliding through tender flesh, of the fiery pain enveloping the brain, of a cackling laughter being the last thing you hear before you die.

I revert to my sister's pies again. My stomach begins to spasm from hunger again, but at least I'm not thinking about the deceased tailor anymore. I hang the shirt on the rack, too, and put the bole tie, the purple leather gloves, the diamond-patterned suspenders and the argyle socks on the shelf next to the rack. From the other suit bag, I take the materials for the trousers and the vest that I need to finish. The cloth for the vest is Italian wool and lycra in hunter green with no pattern, and the material for the trousers is the same, only that the colour is purple and the pattern striped.

I steal a look at Vincent, who hasn't moved for the last twenty minutes. He is standing by the door, his hands clasped at his stomach, the image of an impenetrable, merciless guard. His face is a blank canvass, but I'd hate to test him and see if he's capable of looking expressive, so I sit back at my working desk and sketch out the vest and the trousers in detail, adding the measurements and my notes in the margins. Every few seconds, my gaze wonders to Vincent. I am truly glad that the Joker is currently gone, but the still presence of Vincent, whose pills they conveniently forgot to take with them, is unnerving. I can't decide which man scares me more, but it is logical to say that so far, the Joker is in the lead, since he is the one who _has_ hurt me so far.

_You __might__ look like a banana to this __gentle__ giant and he'll just...try to __peel__ you a__part__._

I grit my teeth. "Asshole," I whisper to myself, wishing I had the guts to say it in the Joker's painted face, and Vincent's head snaps into my direction. His sudden, direct eye contact makes my back collide with the back of the chair, my heart beat accelerating its pace.

"Boss said no talking."

It's the first time I hear Vincent speak and his gruff bass is definitely how I imagined he'd sound. The booming quality of his voice makes me shudder a little. I wish I could be invisible. I so didn't want to get this guy's attention. His eyes are actually very expressive, all of a sudden, not blank anymore, but filled with an emotion I'm reluctant to identify.

"I'm sorry," I reply with a thin voice.

I have every right to be scared. This guy could easily squash me like an over-ripe pumpkin. Or peel me like a banana. My skin feels raw and tender just at the thought and I protectively embrace myself.

"No talking," Vincent replies, more fiercely this time, and I simply nod, swallowing down my agitation.

From my point of view, the tension in the room is so thick that I could easily cut it with the proverbial knife. Or my scissors. I look at the scissors I'll soon be using to cut the cloth, an idea forming in my mind. I have two pairs of scissors and on a whim, I decide that as soon as Vincent looks away and goes into his blank, empty mode again, I'll tuck one pair of scissors behind my jeans, like the cops and criminals do in the movies. I have no idea if I'll have to use them and how I'll do it, but it doesn't hurt to have some protection on me. I'm sure the Joker knows he left me behind with sharp tools, but if Vincent tries anything, I'll defend myself. Perhaps the Joker _wants_ me to do something, for the fun of it, or to test me, or God knows what. Or maybe, he doesn't even want me to do anything, just finish his damn wardrobe.

It's hard to think straight right now, what with Vincent staring at me and my stomach rumbling like a boar. But I feel comforted by the promise of those scissors resting against my spine soon.

Carefully, I turn on the sewing machine, grab the hunter-green cloth and hope to get to work without any interruptions performed by Vincent. An interruption does happen, but it doesn't come in the form of Vincent. The door opens and Vincent's head snaps in the direction of the intruder. I am ready. In the few moments before the intruder makes his presence known, I grab the extra pair of scissors off the desk and shove them down the back of my jeans, scratching my back a little. I don't care if I hurt myself a little; I feel much better now.

The intruder steps into the room and grins. It's Jack, the one I nicknamed Smooth Criminal. Handling one thug at a time is a lot. Two thugs in the same room and at the same time put me further on edge.

"Go help Laurence," Jack commands and Vincent, the huge, dangerous Vincent, simply nods and leaves.

I feel inclined to hang my jaw in disbelief, but I don't. I exhale in relief. I'm just happy to be rid of Vincent. Jack, although one of the Joker's henchmen, seems less scary. On the outside, at least. He might be a real beast on the inside, for all I know. The cold, silver blades of the scissors are soothing against the skin of my back. Perhaps my desire to protect myself is not such a smart move on my part. I _have_ tried to run away, and the attempt nearly got me killed. However, I was unarmed then. I'm not so defenceless now. I won't try anything, of course, _unless_ they provoke me.

A rustling sound makes me look at Jack's hands and I see a McDonald's bag between his fingers. My mouth begins to water and my stomach produces an embarrassing, belching sound.

"Right on time, I see," Jack says lightly, walks over to my desk and deposits the bag next to the sewing machine. "Dig in, sweetheart," he adds with a wink and I try to ignore both the wink and the endearment he used.

He sits down on a carton box filled with cloth, pushing it next to the desk. Of course, I won't be left alone, but I am so hungry that I don't care. I practically tear apart the bag and grab a cheeseburger, which suddenly tastes like the best burger I've ever eaten. My eating is not very ladylike, but Jack doesn't comment on it. Instead, he is regarding me with benevolent curiosity, his dark eyes sparkling. He looks almost as if he's happy to watch a person eat. But really, I don't care. I'm as hungry as a wolf, I need to keep my strength and he is not doing anything strange, just sitting and observing me calmly, so I eat. After three cheeseburgers, a pie and a big cup of Coca Cola, I feel much better.

"Thank you," I say as I throw the bag and the cup into the bin under my desk.

Jack chuckles. "No problem. I figured you might be hungry, so I convinced boss to let me buy you some food." He flashes his white teeth at me. "I feel it's my duty to make such a pretty girl happy."

I could smirk at his comment. I've never liked his type: the handsome macho who thinks he can make any girl swoon with his pretty smiles. I feel like I can speak more freely with Jack, though, and, emboldened by my delightfully full stomach, I say, "Letting me _go_ is what would make me really happy."

He laughs out loud and crosses his arms over his chest. "Yeah, well, I obviously can't do _that_ for you," he replies, still laughing a little. "Not yet, at least. You just do what he wants and you'll be fine."

I perk up an eyebrow at him, showing freely how ridiculous his statement is. "Really? Can you _guarantee _that?"

His smile fades, but the amused sparkle in his eyes remains. "I don't know what he plans to do with you, but you just be good, do your part and you'll stay out of trouble."

"That's very reassuring," I retort and try to focus on the sewing.

"Hey, how long will that take, anyway?" he asks and points at the hunter-green fabric in my hands, leaning forward a little on the box.

I don't look at him. My focus is on the fabric. "Am I on a deadline?" The tone of my voice is even. It figures: just another thing that the Joker forgot to mention.

"Yeah. Will you be done in three hours?"

I look up at him. Three hours? Three hours for making the vest and the trousers and ironing the Joker's wardrobe? Yes, I can do it, but I will have to be very fast, and fast is not an adjective to be associated with good, quality sewing. If I make a few mistakes, will they be noticed? It's hard to be perfect under stress.

"Yes," I finally reply. I have to add the following question. "And... And then what happens?"

Jack's lips lift with a cheerful smile. "And then we do our job."

My fingers are shaking as I'm measuring the cloth, drawing lines across it with chalk and then cutting through it. Perhaps Jack's good behaviour so far has made me a bit reckless, but I can't keep quiet.

"What are you men going to do to Gotham?" My question is a whisper, a bit of a plea, and if I actually get an answer, I'm afraid of it.

Jack chuckles. "You know I can't tell you this, sweetheart! There's no room for spoilers, sorry."

He's not sorry. None of them are. They will create chaos and they will love every single moment of it. I can imagine there will be blood, there will be suffering, and the Joker and his partners in crime will triumph over the city. The city in which I was born, where I grew up, where I have family and friends, where I learned to drive a car, where everything I have is, where I realised my dreams. I have wondered before, and I begin to wonder again: Where is _Batman_? He disappeared after the Joker's arrest. No, he disappeared after the death of Harvey Dent. The city mourned Gotham's White Knight, choosing the dark caped crusader as the scapegoat, as the target of their despair and hatred. I myself was surprised to hear on the news that Batman killed Dent. I couldn't believe it; I didn't _want_ to believe it. For a week, I was alternating between feeling disappointed and resentful. Then, it struck me: Surely _Batman_ didn't kill Dent on purpose. It was a mistake, one tragic, fucking mistake, I was certain, and after all the good he'd done, the city shouldn't take it into their minds to crucify him because of a mistake he never intended to commit. He couldn't have intended it. But they did and they chased him away, and look where it's lead us. The Joker is free, only hours away from wounding the city once more, and this time, I somehow became a part of this new mess.

Gotham shouldn't have shunned the vigilante. I admit, he has broken the law countless times, but precisely by breaking the law, he's saved lives, he's exposed criminals and cleaned the city good. Now that he's gone, things have turned for the worse again. Crime has escalated, according to the news, and the Joker, the most notorious criminal Gotham has ever hosted, escaped and is already preparing for a new rampage, right now, at this very moment. _In my store_. I am beginning to believe that, without Batman, I actually won't make it. Batman would have found the Joker, I know he would. He did once. Now, there's no one else. I'm stuck. I'm fucking stuck.

"Hey, hey, sweetheart." Jack's voice snaps me out of my self-destructive ruminations. I look up, startled. "Where did you wander off?"

I clear my throat. I have to collect myself. "Nowhere," I choke out. I say the first stupid thing that comes to my mind. "Anyway, I'll need to do a fitting with the Joker after about an hour, before I finish off the sewing."

It's true, sadly. I don't want to do it. I don't want to stand close to him again and touch him, but I have to if I want to finish his wardrobe properly. I have a feeling he wouldn't like a vest that was too tight or trousers that were loose.

"Oh, right, you're right." He stands up from the box and points at me. "You stay right here and don't do anything stupid."

My heart jumps to my throat in excitement. He is going to leave me _alone_? He just asked me not to do anything stupid before he was about to do something stupid himself. I think I'm beginning to like Jack for this. I have no idea if I'll actually be able to do anything while I'll be alone, but still, I'm thrilled by the prospect.

Jack saunters to the door, opens them, casts me a look over one shoulder, accompanied by a wink, and leaves me alone. I jump to my feet immediately. I begin to roam my storeroom with my eyes, looking for any means of escape. Then, I sink into my chair. Oh, who am I kidding? The room has no backdoor, no window, and the ventilation shaft is too narrow for me to crawl through. I huff in frustration, fighting back the tears that come to my eyes because I feel as useless and as trapped as I did before. The Joker destroyed all of the available phones. I am only left with needles and two pairs of scissors.

Still, I stand up once more, determined to carefully check if anyone's at the door. I tiptoe to the exit from the storeroom and tentatively turn the doorknob. I open the door only a little, but what I see is enough to make me shut them again. Vincent and Laurence are in the workroom, but so are about five other guys that weren't there the last time I was in the workroom.

_Shit_.

My store has been converted into some sort of criminal base.

I splay my back against the wall by the door and take a deep breath. I try to be rational, although that's very hard to be in such a crisis situation. I will never get past those men, so I have to rely on the questionable fact that the finished suit is my way out. I take another deep breath, promise myself to have a secret backdoor made in the storeroom once – and if – I make it tonight, and dart to the working desk. I begin to work, harder than I've ever worked on a suit in my life. I shut off my mind and focus entirely on the feel of the fabric between my fingers, on the sewing machine, on the needles, on the patterns, on anything but my situation. I work like an automaton, minutes ticking away incredibly slowly. I consult my wrist watch every now and then, but otherwise I am filling the silence of the storeroom with the whirring of the sewing machine, with the slicing of the scissors and an occasional sigh.

The vest is finished; only the fitting remains. No one has come in, which strikes me as odd because it's the first time I've been alone all evening. There are voices outside the door, so I'm sure no one is worried that one little seamstress will run away. No wonder, since I _can't_.

As I start working on the trousers, the door opens and an unfamiliar man steps in, only to check up on me and my progress, and then he simply leaves, not a word spoken. I ignore the interruption and continue.

I am almost done with the trousers. No one has come to see me since that guy. Two hours have gone by, my back is killing me and I am still delightfully alone. However, the solitude is disconcerting because I can't stop thinking about what will follow.

What will happen once I'm done?

I dread that moment, as much as I've been anticipating it.

As I'm working on the trousers, the door pushes open again, but this time, the sight before me propels me to my feet, my throat unable to contain the scream that pours from my mouth. The sewing machine whirs to a stop as my body is adjusting to the sudden adrenaline rush pumping through me.

The Joker is back and he has brought company with him. It's not seeing him again that unhinges me this time. It's _her_.

"Look what _I_ found!" he exclaims, kicking the door closed behind him, as I stare at the person he is holding by the neck, her back against his chest, her fingers grabbing at his strong arm lodged under her chin in a futile attempt to free herself.

_Louise_. My best friend and co-worker Louise.

"No!" I shout out and make two fast steps forward, but the Joker stops me.

"_Ah-ah_!" he pronounces, showing me the knife in his other hand. I jerk to an immediate stop, my eyes widened in horror.

"Meg, help!" Louise pleads, her voice sodden with fear, but that only makes the Joker push her against himself harder and she lets out a high-pitched yelp.

"Please, _don't_," I demand, tears streaming down my face. "She is my_ friend_, she just came looking for me," the words are coming out of my mouth. "I had plans for tonight, a-a-a family dinner, and since I didn't show up, obviously, my family probably called her to go check up on me at the store. Please. Let her go, _please_."

"It's true," Louise wheezes.

The door opens again and Jack steps in.

"I'm here, boss," he states simply, not surprised at all by the drama playing in the room.

"Join Meg over there," the Joker commands playfully.

Jack walks over to me and snakes an arm around my waist, pressing me against his hip. I don't fight him; I'm afraid to do anything stupid because now, it's not only my life that's on the line. Louise is involved, my best friend Louise. I'm falling apart as I am watching Louise struggle in the Joker's vice, her long blonde hair getting wet with her tears, her green eyes two pits of fear drowning in them.

"Please,_ let her go_," I plead, forgetting my pride, for Louise's sake. "_She_ doesn't need to be dragged into this. You came to _me_. No one else needs to be involved."

"Oh," the Joker begins, "I should just..._let her go_, hm?"

I don't like his carefree tone, his light smile, his fucking arm nestled around Louise's thin swan's neck. He caresses her wet cheek with the hand that's holding the knife and Louise whimpers pitifully. I do the same, wringing my hands in front of me.

"I, uh, I don't think I _can_, Meg."

I know he can't, but I just want him to let her go, to not hurt her. I try to take a step forward, but Jack pins my back against his side harder. The scissors dig into my flesh and I grunt involuntarily.

"She can help me finish your suit," I offer pathetically. "We're b-both seamstresses. She w-_works_ for me."

"R-_really_?" the Joker mimics my stuttering speech. "But see, _I_ wanna play... a _game_."

That makes me begin to wriggle in Jack's arms. I'm not playing _any_ fucking game devised by the Joker, _I am not_.

Ignoring the struggling Louise, the Joker points to my desk with his free hand. "I, uh... I left you with _two_ pairs of scissors, Meg, and ah, I see only _one_." He licks his lips and nods. I feel my blood beginning to run cold and I stop wriggling. "Search her, Jack."

"I'll be gentle, sweetheart," Jack whispers into my ear, grinning lewdly, and his hands descend upon my shoulders, gently sliding down my arms in a seductive manner. I can't stand him touching me like this. I suppose _this_ is part of the game too. The Joker knew it would make me suffer. That's why Jack is here, I guess. _Bastard_.

"Stop!" I scream and, regardless of the consequences, push him away from me, pulling the scissors from behind my jeans and showing them in plain sight, the object resting on my outstretched palm. "Just take them, but _don't_ touch me," I hiss, my nerves on edge.

"No, no," the Joker interrupts, "you ah, _keep _the scissors, Meg, and you, Jack, you just _watch_."

I stare at the Joker, not liking the sound of this one bit. Louise is crying in the Joker's vice and I am allowed to keep my scissors, to play a game. A realisation begins to dawn on me.

Oh, no. Oh, God.

Will I have to... _fight_ for Louise?

_No_.

"Oh, you look _horrified_," the Joker comments innocently, but he doesn't hold back the obvious enthusiasm in this voice. "I see you're beginning to _understand_, Meg."

This time, I take a step back. "No. _No_."

He tsk-s. "You haven't even _heard_ what I have to say. Now don't be _rude_." He sighs gently, squeezing Louise a little harder. "You are a _just_ girl, aren't you, Meg? You don't _believe_ in revenge because _justice _takes care of it for you, hm?" He chuckles a little. "You didn't kill your _guy_ because _justice_ took care of him for you. You don't believe in _murder_, do you, Meg?"

When I don't reply, his gaze becomes black and he repeats the question with acid in his voice. "_Do you_?"

"No, I _don't_ believe in murder. I could _never_ kill anyone, no matter what," I reply fiercely, my gaze resting on Louise.

He nods. "Not even in... self-defence?"

I grit my teeth. "That wouldn't be murder. It's called self-defence for a reason."

"_Ah_," he pronounces emphatically, "so you don't _entirely_ rule out murder."

"I never said that. You are twisting my words." I am growing incredibly nervous. I'm sure my knuckles are white from squeezing the scissors so hard.

"How about," he drawls, "we put your justice theory... _to the test_?"

Louise begins to struggle more fervently and he shakes her a little with his arm, making her yelp and then grow still once more.

"I say that the _only_ way for you to save your friend is... to _kill_. Will you do it, to... _save_ your friend?"

I stare at him in utter horror, and then I look at Louise, and his knife suddenly pressing against the tender skin of her neck. I am secretly crumbling, but still, I say fiercely, "I will _not _kill anyone. _Never._"

The Joker looks amused and he grins. "Y'know, you _kind_ of remind of the _Batman_," he growls the vigilante's name a little, "and I _never_ thought I'd say _this_ to anyone. But, there you go, hm? Things _change_."

What sort of sick, perverted game is he playing?

"I'm _not_ Batman," I retort.

He sighs. "No, _you_... are not the Ba-_t_." He licks his lips and rests the blade of his knife flat against Louise's cheek, making her sob out loudly. I can't watch this.

"Let her go," I ask, weakly.

"Oh, see," he begins, "I was thinking that _you_ should kill Jack with those scissors of yours and _I_ let her go, or... _she_ dies because _you_... did _nothing_." He smiles. "_Now_."

"Wait, what?" Jack exclaims. "Boss, don't! I have nothing to do with this shit."

Almost at the same time, I shout out, "What are you trying to _prove_?"

The Joker ignores Jack and looks at me. "What is the greater evil, Meg? Doing _something_, or doing _nothing_? Just..._watching_ the innocent suffer and die because you were _too just_ to _act_."

"Batman doesn't kill and he still manages to _save_ lives," I offer smugly and the Joker laughs his shrill laughter, making me – and Louise – cringe.

He smirks. "Oh, he _will_. Give him time."

His cold words are a biting snake and the poison is spreading through me, making me feel sick. I watch him as he gently cuts Louise's cheek. She screams and so do I, while a drop of her blood is trailing slowly down the skin, dropping down from the tip of her chin.

I contemplate that the noble thing to do would be to kill _myself_ for Louise, but that would be stupid. He'd kill her anyway, then, wouldn't he? And the thing is, I really don't want to die. I don't want anyone to die!

_I don't fucking know what to do_!

"I have killed, oh, I _have_," the Joker continues, his voice filled with pleasure at torturing me and Louise. "And Jack, over there," he nods towards Jack, "who is, by the way, unarmed at the moment," he giggles, "has _raped_ before, ah hah." He grins. "Picture _him_ as the one who harmed you. It'll make it _easier_."

"I won't kill anyone!" I scream and as if on cue, the Joker stabs Louise in her arm, and before I can scream again, he removes the blade and penetrates her thigh with vicious strength. Louise's blood-curdling shrieks are too much for me. The sight of her blood makes me gag. I want to sprint forward and pull her from the Joker's murderous embrace, but my legs have turned to stone. I'm so shaken that my body can't react the way my mind wants it to.

"The next time I stab her," he says, his voice lowering dramatically, "will be in the stomach. It won't _kill_ her. I can make it _last_." He pauses. "_Long_."

"I'm outta here, boss!" Jack says and makes a move forward. The Joker bites into the bloodied knife to free his hand and takes a gun from behind his pants. Without a preamble, he shoots Jack in the leg, just above his knee. Jack, Louise and I all scream in unison. Jack falls to the ground, grabbing at the wound in his thigh.

"Finish the job," the Joker tells me after he puts the gun back behind his pants and takes the knife back into his hands. I swallow down bile as he licks a drop of Louise's blood from his lip.

"Why him?" I ask, my voice raw, and I don't know why I even want to know.

The Joker rolls his eyes at the wailing Jack. Then, he sighs. "He annoys me." He smiles. "He's not important. _So_, he's good practice."

"What if I just kill _you_?" I counter, though I don't mean it. He would finish Louise before I got to him and honestly, he has had a lot of _practice_. I don't stand a chance against him. And then, there is also the fact that I simply cannot take a life.

He smirks. "Try me."

I look at Louise, at her bleeding wounds, at how her sobbing is growing fainter as she is losing blood. I look at the pain on her face, at the bloodied knife in the Joker's hands, at Jack trying to nurse his wound with his bare fingers, and then, finally, at the scissors I've been cradling all this time.

"I... can't," I sigh out, feeling faint.

The Joker looks at the ceiling emphatically, and then drops his head to look at me. "You... disappoint me, Meg."

He shoves the knife into Louise's stomach so very easily. The pain awakens Louise and forces a banshee's cry out of her throat. I drop on my knees, the weight of my emotions felling me easily.

"Louise!" I scream, "_Louise_!"

"Go on," the Joker teases, smiling. "_Save_ her. _Kill_."

_Kill to save_.

I hear Louise whisper, "Meg, help, please…"

The look on her face, that pleading look of a suffering girl who only wants to live, is my undoing. I close my eyes, my tears falling freely, a few drops landing on my hands.

I can't do this. It makes me sick. I can't give him the satisfaction.

I open my eyes and Louise is still suffering. She'll die if she doesn't get help. _My_ help. He will kill her.

If I don't save Louise, her face will haunt me until the moment I die. If I kill Jack, I'll never be the same. I'll die inside. I can't win, no matter what I choose. I can't even carve a chicken without feeling bad about it. Stabbing a human being is an impossibility. It's the greatest sin.

"Meg…" Louise whimpers.

"Oh_, God_," I wail and begin to crawl towards Jack. He is unarmed and hurt. I _could_ do it.

"Come any closer and I'll _strangle_ you," Jack threatens.

I ready the scissors. I suppose I'll just… throw myself at him and… stab him.

I shed one final tear. My humanity will soon be gone. I jump.


End file.
